


What the Fireflies Saw

by GwenhwyvarReads



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragons, F/F, Magical Minorities, Modern Fantasy, Queer Characters, Slice of Life, Supernatural - Freeform, Transgender Characters, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches, journey of self-discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24001792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenhwyvarReads/pseuds/GwenhwyvarReads
Summary: After a lifetime of having her path dictated by her parents, Serena struggles to learn who she is and where she belongs. Her first step on a path of her own creation is travelling to a small college in New England. The people are friendly and the area is prospering, but she slowly discovers the majority of the town is owned by a single business and many of the residents aren't what they appear to be.
Kudos: 1





	1. It's Only A Felony If You Steal Something

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my friend Maki for lending me some of her characters and helping with development and to my friend Rhinocio for always being the best Beta reader!

She must have lost her mind when she accepted this dare. Maybe that could be her excuse when she was arrested and put on trial. Temporary insanity due to peer pressure. Totally legitimate. Did you get a court trial with a jury for breaking and entering?

That thought momentarily diverted Serena's thoughts, which had been racing in an ever more hysterical loop. She'd been standing outside the mechanic's shop for at least a half hour and if she didn't go in soon, someone was going to notice and call the police about suspicious loitering. She hadn't even stolen the keys yet and the young woman already felt like her guilt must be shining from her face like a burning brand. A scarlet letter. A… a whatever! She might have been a lit major but that didn't mean she always had the right words! She was going to throw up. Maybe. No. Probably.

The little red bird on the garage sign was a splash of blood on dingy white. The entire building had a run-down look; retreating from the road and partially into the evergreen forest that surrounded the town as though it was ashamed of its peeling paint. Or maybe it was trying to conceal a terrifying secret. Serena took a deep breath and began to walk slowly towards the open garage bay.

In theory, everything had seemed ridiculously simple. The mechanic that ran this shop was the focal point of one of the biggest urban legends at the University of New Haven. Students whispered that he lived like a hermit in the apartment over the garage and he was rarely seen in town. The shop was always locked up with the shades down before the sun set and overall the guy was just weird. What he did to be considered weird was a little vague, other than being a recluse, but no one doubted he was keeping a secret. He was a serial killer with a loft full of grisly trophies. He was secretly a pervert with a hidden dungeon. He was a vampire. The possibilities were endless and anyone who could solve the mystery would surely secure a place among her peers as someone worth noticing. Right?

Unless she ended up like one of Bluebeard's wives in that awful old fairytale. Gravel crunched under her feet like dry bones and the twisted front wheel of the bicycle she was pushing decided to let out a metallic screech that sliced into her nerves. She almost broke and ran then and there, but a voice called out from inside the garage. Serena clenched her teeth and turned around. She would finish what she started or die trying. It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, but the interior of the shop was hardly worth looking at anyway.

Two old cars filled the first two bays and a motorcycle took up the third. Another motorcycle hid in the corner, peeking nervously out from under an oil spotted sheet. Along one wall was a row of appliances that had been gutted and their dismembered pieces scattered around them. A lawnmower and a trio of weed-whackers huddled together against the far wall, beside the door of what was probably a supply closet. It might be the hiding place for the bodies. Not that anyone had ever been declared officially missing, of course . The town was probably covering things up to maintain its reputation as a safe and friendly college community.

And then Bluebeard himself slammed the hood down on one of the cars and came to greet her. Except his beard wasn't blue. It was more of a brown stubble that matched his hair and the way he rubbed at it self consciously left a smear of engine grime across his cheek. If he'd realized what he had just done, Serena doubted he would have kept trying to hide the grease stains on his tank top. She got as far up as the deep bags under his eyes before deciding it would be easier to study her mary-janes than to make eye contact with a potentially dangerous human being. Yes, excellent. The left shoe had a scuff. She'd have to buy some shoe blacking later if her head didn't end up in a pickle jar.

"Can I help you?"

His voice was a low rumble, but - and maybe this was her projecting - he sounded almost as anxious as she felt. The broken bike was thrust between them like a fence. Or a sacrificial offering. There was a long pause. Long enough that she could feel in exquisite detail the winding path of a single drop of sweat rolling down her guy cleared his throat. Serena switched majors from her own shoes to the slow back and forth dance of his sneakers.

"Miss... I don't normally repair bicycles."

The universe hated her. This had been her perfect, completely foolproof excuse and she was already feeling like a fool. Had been for a while now. She found her voice long enough to whisper, "But… but your shop is listed as bike and auto repairs?"

A tanned and calloused hand held a business card a respectful distance from her nose. In sanguine letters it declared 'Red Bird Repairs - Motorcycles are our specialty!' and in case that wasn't clear enough, an image of a motorcycle below the words threatened by it's trajectory to fly off the paper. A dirty thumb print on the corner was material evidence. She tucked the card carefully into her purse. Probable cause of death, officer? Looks like she died of fatal levels of humiliation, poor thing.

"Oh no! No no… please don't cry. I'm sure I can fix it for you!"

The guy's voice rose in pitch until it was almost as shrill as any police siren. She winced, both at the volume and in embarrassment that her feelings were so transparent. Serena could see her mother's disapproving sneer behind her clenched eyelids. Always a disappointment. Always a problem. She heard faceless students snickering behind her back. Crybaby. Bet you that she'd jump a mile if you said 'boo' to her. Picking on her is so easy that it's boring.

Warm hands brushed hers, loosening the white knuckled grip she had on the handlebars and letting go just as quickly. When she opened her eyes, the mechanic was looking down at her with such a look of empathy that the lurking tears almost spilled over. Oddly enough, she thought of the worn-out stuffed dog that she kept hidden in her dorm room. The seams were coming loose and the stuffing inside was showing through the stitches. Years of soaking up tears had washed the original gloss from it's coat, leaving behind a dingy and ragged appearance. Only it's eyes were still bright.

So were the mechanic's as he knelt down to examine her bike. His jaw tightened as he traced the scratches and unwound the broken chain. There was something almost predatory in the intensity of his stare. Angry. Calculating. Goosebumps rose on her skin in instinctive fear, but she realized a second later that none of it was directed at her. His head tilted to one side as he switched his focus to her. For the first time she really met his gaze and was startled to find his eyes were a warm shade of amber. Even more surprising, they were filled with concern.

"No. No, this - this doesn't look like an accident to me," the mechanic mumbled, chewing on the words and his lip. His eyebrows were nearly touching, furrowing his forehead with worry lines. The mechanic darted another glance in her direction and crouched lower. He swept his hand dramatically down one side of the bike and away, gesturing in place of the words he seemed to be struggling with. "It was dragged. Yeah… yeah, when you hit something by mistake, you stop. This car… it didn't. There's no paint left on this side. Deep scratches. Not an accident."

It wasn't a question, but Serena tried to laugh. The sound came up in watery bubbles and she thought for the second time in the last hour that she was going to be sick. Deprived of the bike to hang onto, her hands fisted in the hem of her blouse and stretched the sparkly fabric thin. In an attempt to sound cheerful, her voice was unnaturally loud in the silence of the garage as she said, "It was… a joke. Someone was just playing a prank on me is all."

"Some joke," the mechanic grumbled back. She expected him to ask if she had reported it or if she knew who it was. Serena anticipated the struggle of trying to explain she couldn't, because her parents were looking for any excuse to say that she was hopeless on her own and would have to give up her silly plan to go to college in a little nowhere town. She couldn't tell him that if they called her home now, she might never escape from them again. How do you tell a stranger that you're legally an adult, but your parents still control your life?

But the mechanic said none of those things.

"Special deal," he said, a shy but earnest smile stretching his lips and making the skin crinkle around his eyes. Ruddy cheeks grew even more red and he ducked his head. "Free paint and scratches fixed for… for anyone who comes in on foot. First time customers only. Do you like… glitter?"

Serena had been mentally preparing herself to be carved up for her foolishness in coming here, but the sudden pain in her heart was stunning. This unfortunate mechanic, who was stammering badly and trying hard to be kind, was having his reputation dragged through the mud far worse than her bicycle had been. If she had to guess, she'd say his social anxiety was even worse than her own. This entire time, she had been worrying about the law and her life. Had she given a single thought to how she might be misjudging an innocent person based on malicious rumors?

She choked out a few words of gratitude around the guilt strangling her like vengeful hands. The worst thing of all was that she was going to finish what she started, despite now feeling a deep conviction that the mechanic was nothing more remarkable than someone who was shy and probably uncomfortable with college crowds. Ruddy brown curls flopped into his eyes as he ran his hand through them nervously, ruffling them up into exclamation points and leaving another smear across his forehead. The lopsided smile, one corner hesitantly turning up as if he wasn't sure she'd appreciate being smiled at, made her wonder at his age. She doubted he was even thirty, but the rumors made it sound like he was middle aged. Serena had read that the most dangerous weirdos were great at convincing people they were normal and harmless. She wanted to be sure… and then maybe she could try to stop the rumors. Somehow.

"I… I do like glitter," she answered, needing to break the silence more than the mechanic needed a response. The opalescent nail polish, the sparkly blouse, and the little rhinestone flowers on her jeans spoke loudly. She hadn't been allowed to pick her own clothes at home, so maybe she was overdoing it just a tiny bit now. "I like them a lot."

"Yes? Good. Great! Um… um… hang on, I'll check in the back," he said, already diving for the safety of the storage room she'd noticed earlier. A deafening crash of falling boxes and metal hitting the floor welcomed him. A stray bolt rolled across the floor. "Need some parts!"

Between the two of them, they could sweep the debate circles. So articulate. She'd won a spelling bee with that word back in grade school, despite visibly shaking in her shoes. Her parents had focused on her obvious fear instead of how she'd won. It was the first and last award she'd ever received. But now she was looking for another prize. With the mechanic wading through the junk, hidden from sight and making enough racket to cover the advent of the apocalypse, she had the best chance to find a key.

The first thing she did was check the side entrance, taking note of the color and brand of the lock before looking around. A staircase to the loft apartment divided the back wall in half, with the storage room on one side and another door on the other. A quick peek inside revealed a small office. There were no bodies. No jars of pickled hearts. Unlike the dusty and oil splattered garage, this room was spotlessly tidy and organized. An old fashioned roll-top desk, well varnished in a warm shade of oak, was against the back wall. The mechanic had put in wire shelves on all the other walls and filled them with neatly labeled banker's boxes and model motorcycles of every size and color. Serena was briefly distracted by a group of tiny matchbox motorcycles balanced on a little track suspended from the ceiling, but another crash from outside reminded her she was on borrowed time.

A few minutes of rifling through the desk drawers and pigeonholes failed to turn up a key. Her heart was pounding out the seconds against her ribs and she smacked her hand against the blotter in frustration. Something underneath scraped against the wood as it moved. Between heartbeat and the next, she'd lifted the leather blotter and pulled out a key. Antiqued brass manufactured by Kwikset. A match. It went into her purse with the smudged business card and she ran back outside in time to pretend to be interested in… in… Serena thought the tools arranged carefully on the wall in front of her were wrenches. They were the most fascinating things in the world until the mechanic came out of the closet.

"Need to get some parts," he said, shaking his head and motioning her away from the tool racks. Just like her old stuffed dog, he watched her with woebegone eyes set in a scruffy face and Serena couldn't find it in her heart to believe he was lying to make her come back. "Give me two days? Will you come back?"

"Yes," she whispered. Serena's hand was in her purse and the spare key was burning a hole in her palm. She would be back, but not during business hours. The mechanic pulled out a folding chair and even offered her a choice of canned sodas from a mini-fridge, rightfully pointing out that it was a long walk from her campus and she must be tired. She was, but Serena's conscience wouldn't let her rest or accept any more misplaced kindness. The last thing she did was wave and try to smile, because the mechanic deserved that a least.

"I'll come back."


	2. Guard Dogs Are A Thing

Letting the Mechanic kill her would have been easier. By the time Serena trudged all the way back to campus, her feet aching with every step and sweat-sticky jeans chafing her thighs, it seemed even more foolish that she’d turned down a free soda and a chair. If the Mechanic was the shy but decent human being she suspected he was, he might have driven her to the bus stop before she missed the 4 PM bus. If he turned out to be a murderous vampire sex fiend after all and she ended up served with Chianti, then she wouldn’t have to face the anxiety of returning to the garage later that night. The end of semester exams wouldn't even need to be a distant dread on her academic horizon if she was buried in the woods.

The brick bulk of the auditorium, which an art student told her incorporated an appalling juxtaposition of architectural styles ranging from Early Georgian to Drunken Blunder, was closer than her dorm. The promise of brisk air conditioning and a place to sit down was worth more than it’s aesthetic appeal - or lack thereof. The bell tower on the other side of the Commons chimed out the hour and Serena checked her watch in horror. It had taken so long to walk back that she had less than two hours before the next bus left campus… to take her right back to where she’d started. 

A crowd amiably jostling each other to get inside for some sort of event. Serena didn’t care who or what it was for until she saw a banner bearing the monochrome logo she was growing to hate. It could be seen everywhere in town, from the big signs thanking the corporation for it’s financial support of various charitable funds to the tiny decals she’d noticed on store windows. Passing through the columned entrance, she hugged the walls until the human currant swept her forward. There was an empty section in the very back of the tiered auditorium and she broke away, wading through deafening chatter and moving bodies to safety. 

Shadows hid her comfortably while she crawled into a folding seat, glancing once at the brilliantly lit stage before pulling out her cell. Serena was hardly interested in listening to some wealthy corporate wolf explain, with eloquent hypocrisy, the value of a close-knit community. Google offered up a wealth of information on the legal nuances of unlawful entry. Breaking and entering without intent to steal would likely end with involuntary community service for a first time offender. She’d avoid a prison sentence but her parents would place her under house-arrest for the rest of her natural existence. What a relief. 

SteelMoon’s CEO was at the podium and when he rapped on it for attention the room became respectfully silent. Serena had briefly seen him at the commencement ceremony. He’d seemed like a nice enough old guy then, tall and athletic looking despite the amount of silver in his black hair. With the way he had been welcoming the newest members of the student body, as warmly and proprietarily as if he owned the college, she’d mistaken him for the dean. Her first humiliation of the school year was mentioning it to a classmate and being laughed at for not knowing who Maverick Morgan was. 

Even now, knowing he was the proverbial King Midas on his golden throne, she found herself drawn to the words that rang out like a challenge. Their community was truly unique - full of diversity and the potential for a future created by themselves and for themselves. What if each person knew they had a place where their individual talents were valued and put to a meaningful use? What if a person knew they would never be abandoned by their neighbors to deprivation and destruction? Change began with taking personal responsibility for the wellbeing of your community and working together to ensure no one was left behind. 

And if SteelMoon kept up it’s practices, there would truly be nothing left behind - that they hadn’t bought, that is.

Beside the CEO, wearing a pearl grey suit and a set of high heels that were totally unnecessary for an Amazonian queen, towered a young woman who would one day graduate _summa cum laude_. Luna Argenti had it all, from top honors to the admiration of her teachers and peers to a smile that normally only existed in posters made for dental offices. She had a family that was proud of her. She was loved. Serena envied her from the top of her platinum blonde hair to the tips of those stupid heels that she could never have hoped to walk in without kissing the ground. 

Not that Luna, the few times they had met in passing, had been mean-spirited. There was just something aloof about her that made crowds part like the red sea and she had a habit of staring in a way that made you feel studied. Serena had also fallen at the tall young woman’s feet one day thanks to a convenient push from someone who’d been late for class and felt she was in the way. She knew it was petty and ridiculous, but having Luna pick her up and corner the offending student until he apologized just made her feel even more humiliated. Headline: Local cult goddess saves the ugly duckling from being stepped on. How we all adore her!

Maybe what really bothered her about Luna was that Serena never felt certain if that act of kindness had been sincere or part of being a public face for SteelMoon. A company pretending it cared as it bought out an entire town through ‘charity’ and subsidizing, lead by a wealthy man who made a big pretense of valuing his community and fronted by a young woman who turned a sweetly concerned mask to the world, repulsed Serena to the depths of her soul. She didn’t need or want anyone to pretend she mattered. Her equally rich and superficial parents had that quota filled. 

Serena had come here to escape that and create something real. She was going to work hard and keep her head down by burying it in books. The strategy had worked all her life and she saw no reason to change her strategy now. Safe, reasonable plans to meet safe, reasonable goals.

Except, of course, there was a certain key that she kept rubbing between her fingers. She had no doubts now that the rumors were wrong, but curiosity now drove her to extremes that her need for recognition would have failed. Serena had read that looking at someone’s home would tell you about them as a person. At her parent’s house, most of the furniture was meant to be admired rather than used and objects were valued for their price tag. Ostentatious. An adjective meaning a vulgar display of wealth, intended to impress or attract notice. Her dorm room, shared with no one, was lacking in personality and almost vacant of possessions. Impersonal. An adjective meaning she didn’t exist, even to herself. 

The Mechanic existed. Unknown. Adjective. All the potential in the world for good or bad was hidden in the unknown, waiting for someone to find the truth. The local cryptid known as The Mechanic could be redefined by whatever she discovered and exonerated in the public eye.

Serena reminded herself of that hopeful mission when, hours later, she stood outside the side entrance to the garage. A single light was installed above it, waiting to spotlight anyone standing on the concrete doorstep. Her fingers smelled and tasted like pennies after handling the key so long, but the disgusting metallic aftertaste didn’t stop her from chewing on her thumbnail. Once she’d bitten that one off, the rest had to go for the sake of symmetry and then she had nothing left to stall with. She could stand there all night, in the dark, waiting to get mugged or eaten by whatever might come slining out of the forest, or she could go in. Going home didn’t cross her mind. 

Trying to act like she belonged there, Serena marched up to the door with her head up and the key in hand. She dropped it once or twice trying to fit it into the lock, but anyone could do that when entering a building that they had every right to be in. It totally didn’t mean she was there to break in or anything else criminal. Nope. The key stuck and for a moment she was sure it was the wrong one. A sort of relief, tinged with disappointment, flooded her and she sagged against the door. Just to be able to say she’d tried, she jiggled the key one more time. The tumblers clicked and the door pushed open under her weight. 

When the sound of her body hitting the floor didn’t bring anyone running downstairs, Serena decided it might be okay to breathe again. She closed the door behind her, cutting off what little light had been shining inside, and hid herself in the gloom until her body stopped vibrating with her heartbeat. Irrationally, she almost decided to sit for a while in the office. The tiny motorcycle track looked like fun but if the Mechanic did turn out to be a serial killer after all, it wasn’t smart to box herself in. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the vague outline of her bike propped in the corner near the covered motorcycle. Patting it and feeling how the scrapes had already been carefully smoothed out gave her the tiny push of courage it took to creep up the stairs. 

The door at the top opened easily and soundlessly, the lock opening on the first try and the hinges failing to protest her crime. Carpet muffled her footsteps as she closed the door and stepped out into the room. Unlike the darker garage, the full moon was peeking through a large uncovered window that overlooked the forest. Soft, silvery light flooded into the room from this benign source, washing away the colors but clearly revealing the details of a life normally hidden from view. 

No one was in the bed. The loft was deserted. Unable to believe the evidence of her own eyes, Serena tiptoed over to the bed and smoothed her hands over the cotton quilt covering it, staring at the jumble of flowers and little birds as though an answer could be found among them. It was soft in the way that only something worn in by years of washing could be and she breathed in the clean scent of laundry soap. It had matching pillow shams and from here she could see the curtains gathered around the kitchen window were ruffled. Maybe it was narrow-minded of her, but it didn't fit her mental image for the home of a motorcycle obsessed grease-monkey. There was even a quilted case between the bed and nightstand that looked like a sewing or craft box. 

Fear began to retreat and curiosity sprang forward to fill the vacancy. The small kitchen was at the back, illuminated by the picture window over the sink. She thought it must be peaceful to wash dishes with that view in front of you and a smile tugged at her lips as she noticed a cookie jar in the shape of a large, pudgy bird nestled between a spice rack and a tea kettle. On the other end of the room was a sitting area, partially sectioned off by a sofa and low bookshelves positioned around a coffee table. The dark square of a decent sized TV sat on one of the shelves along with some potted plants. 

Not a single jar of organs or a skull candle-holder to be found. No dirty pictures framed on the walls or equipment for sexual gymnastics either. Serena thought, with a sudden twinge of conscience, that she wished she had been invited in instead of breaking in. The Mechanic had practically offered it the day before. The reminder of the absent homeowner had her heart lurch and she stumbled to her feet, wondering at what point she had sat down on the bed. She looked around, but still no one came out of the shadows to confront her. She felt watched, but it was by her own guilt. 

The sofa was a little lumpy and it groaned when she sat down. The young woman broke into hysterical giggles, clamping her hands over her mouth to smother the noise and bending forward until her forehead touched her knees. This wasn’t the story of Bluebeard. She was Goldilocks in the bears’ house and mustn’t break anything or eat all the porridge. Self-control was as reluctant to return as she was to leave her cozy spot on the couch, but eventually she was calm enough to go through the book shelves. Travel guides and magazines made up most of the population, along with folded maps and stories about famous explorers. She was moving aside a book about the history of automotive travel when a folder that had been crammed behind it fell out. 

Now here was a mystery! A hidden thing that the mechanic didn’t want to look at or be found. She flopped back on the couch, enjoying how the old thing almost embraced her as she sank down into it. There was no hard plastic covering to protect the fabric and no one here who would stare until she recognized it’s monetary value exceeded her own. When she had her own home, everything in it would be this comfortable. She turned towards the moonlight and, holding her breath, Serena opened the dusty folder. 

What Serena found made tears of remorse spring to her eyes. She was a terrible person and deserved to be punished for prying into someone else’s heart. Reverently, as though by handling the papers gently she could lessen her crime, Serena looked over pages of scribbled dreams that had never come true. A redesign for the sign outside and plans for remodeling the garage were crossed out with dark, wild marker streaks that suggested the mechanic had been trying to blot out the hopes he’d had. The dates told her years had passed over the grave of this idea. 

Folded trip itineraries were filled with little notes of ‘Not that far. I could take my bike and go camping’ and ‘Best to go by boat, then rent a truck?’ in the margins. Mixed in were diary-like pages talking about freedom and escape, about loneliness and longing and despair. A small card slipped out and onto the floor. The card’s sides were ragged and creased with age and rough handling, but inside was a faded photo of a young woman and a pressed flower that had been lovingly preserved. Someone with neat, sharp handwriting had left a message on the back of the picture. ‘I loved her too. You don’t need to be alone.’ The ink was blotched with long dried tears. 

She couldn’t read any more. She shouldn’t. Serena staggered up from the couch she had no right to be enjoying and fumbled everything back into the folder. Almost blind with tears, she tried to put the folder and books back exactly where they’d been before, but it was too late. She was the psycho who broke into people’s homes, not The Mechanic.Useless apologizes fell from her lips in an agonized torrent. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry! I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have dug through your things. It was wrong and I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway! I’ll leave… I’ll… I’ll leave and then I’ll pay you for the bike and I’ll never ever do this again. I promise. I’ll… I’ll stop the rumors somehow and maybe…”

What? Maybe what? Maybe she could forgive herself? Maybe she could expiate her guilt with a good work? She hiccupped and sobbed, rubbing her eyes raw. Was she even sorry for what she’d done or was her shame a sign of selfishness, dwelling on how she felt when her feelings didn’t matter? She might have stayed there the rest of the night, berating herself and picking her motives to shreds, except that between one sob and the next she heard a sound. A board creaked in the kitchen and the tears froze on her cheeks. The deep shadows heaped around the kitchen table uncurled and, rising up on four legs, took on a distinctly canine form. The possibility of a guard dog had never occurred to the first time offender.

Pointed ears swivelled to focus on her and she could now see the eerie gleam of its eyes reflecting the moonlight. A low growl broke the stillness. It was big enough to kill her. Easily. She wasn't even sure it was a dog and not The Big Bad Wolf stepping into reality to eat up all naughty little girls who went places they shouldn't go. The bulk was just too big for a dog, the proportions somehow off. Unnatural. 

It stood.

Time stopped. It could do that in fairytales and nightmares. Dead silence now closed in around her, suffocating and leaving a void that made her ears ring even more loudly than the thundering of her heart. The monster took a single, lumbering step in her direction. She’d failed to find the secret, but it had found her. It’s silhouette blocked out the light from the window behind it, cutting her off from her last comfort as it loomed over where she’d fallen to the carpet. Closer and closer, soundless steps adding to the sense of unreality. She closed her eyes.

Nothingness. No sight. No sound. No life. She would be forgotten as though she'd never existed. Her parents would remember her only as a waste of time and resources. Her teachers might be annoyed at having to report a terminal no-show. The congealed tears in her eyelashes dripped down the sides of her face as she lay flat against the floor. Hot, humid breath puffed against her face. She tensed, waiting for the teeth to tear into her. For agony. For death. 

An explosive sneeze from the monster and every particle in her body flew to pieces. She almost wet her pants. When Serena gathered her scattered self together, she became aware that it was snuffling at her face and hair. A cold, wet nose poked against her eyelid. Something that could only be the monster’s tongue flicked against her cheek and she whimpered in terror. It was tasting her. 

She had no hope of winning the fight. She didn’t even have the breath to scream, but instinct still had her throw out a hand to ward the monster off. It yelped when she smacked its muzzle and, adrenaline surging, she lashed out harder and came away with a hand covered in loose fur from it’s neck. The monster jerked back and crouched low to the ground, snarling softly before pinning its ears back and… whining. It was whining, sharp and miserable and so much like crying that she found the strength to push herself up onto her knees. She wobbled and fell forward, her palms stinging as they raked against the carpet. 

The monster turned tail and crawled under the kitchen table, knocking down three of the four chairs in the process. The lump of it’s curled up body shivered with the mournful whimpering for several minutes until finally falling silent. Sick with dizziness and a wild sort of curiosity, Serena edged forward on hands and knees as far as the boundary between carpet and tile. It was watching her. 

Never rising, she began to back towards the door instead. It seemed like an eternity before her shoes hit the frame, but she never dared to look away from the huddled body across the room. Serena pressed her back to the door for support as she regained her feet, feeling for the knob behind her and getting ready to dive out if the monster attacked again. It didn’t. She was free to run away and that was exactly what she meant to do.

Except she found herself looking back over her shoulder. It had crawled out from under the table, but it was still pressed to the floor. The monster’s tail thumbed, just once, and it’s flattened ears came up. It was waiting. The ghost of a whimper rippled through the moonlight and the monster abruptly sagged, turning it’s back on her and staring out the window. It lifted it’s muzzle in a silent howl. Serena ran. The memory of its seeming despair chased her all the way to her dorm and forlorn howling echoed throughout her dreams.


	3. The Cherry On My Ruined Sunday

Two days later Serena acknowledged that Werewolves might exist.

Saturday was Google Everything day, which she spent in bed with her laptop and a box of Chips Ahoy cookies. She’d had a lecture that morning, but it was optional and who could care about something some old French guy wrote centuries ago when you might have fallen into your own fairytale? Victor Hugo never wrote happy books, anyway, and she was miserable enough as it was. She began with looking up large dog breeds and any possible correlation between myths of canine-like bipeds and real-world medical conditions. Hypertrichosis didn’t even begin to cover what she’d seen, though the rabbit hole of Wikipedia had her reading about it. She tried to imagine having a medical condition that made hair sprout all over your body until you had a fur coat like an animal. Maybe it was out of kindness that the mechanic was hiding the whatever-it-was.

By noon on Sunday, time and the light of day had given her a different perspective on what had happened. As hard as it was to swallow -far harder than the last chocolate chip cookie had been- Serena could find no reason more rational or logical than accepting that she had met a real werewolf on the full moon. She also had to admit that the Wolf had not attacked her. If it had, she’d be dead and eaten up like an hors d'oeuvre. A piggy-in-a-blanket for the Big Bad Wolf. No – like a big, curious dog, it had come over to sniff at a new person. Licking her had probably been a friendly gesture or even an attempt to soothe her. Weren't dogs good at judging human body language? Were werewolves the same?

And she was supposed to go back today to pick up her bike. 

Procrastination and Serena were longtime friends, so they had spent the day hanging out. It gave her endless time, while taking forever to do nothing at all, to dwell on her behavior. She had betrayed the kindness of the mechanic by stealing his keys and invading his privacy. The Wolf probably only knew that a stranger had broken into its home and hit it for no reason it could understand. What she had done was indefensible, but Serena didn’t know that she had the courage to confront the mechanic with the truth. It would be far easier to go to the garage and find a way to drop the key somewhere he would find it. Then she could pretend that everything was okay when it wasn’t. She was used to that.

A grey, soaking rain saved her right at the point where she had forced herself into clothing and had been working herself up to open the door. No criminal spared the gallows could have displayed more joyful relief than Serena as she bounced across the room to plant her face against the window. The clouds were weeping as she smiled up at the darkened heavens, blessing every last nimbostratus cloud congesting the normally blue expanse. Then she called the garage and regretfully let the mechanic know she couldn't come in such bad weather. 

There was no hint in either the mechanic's words or tone that he knew she'd been in his home on Friday night. Was he the werewolf? Was it someone or something else who he was hiding? So many questions filled her mind, but she could only stammer excuses and he could only haltingly suggest the rain might let up soon. The sigh on the other end of the line was a well deserved stab to her conscience when he accepted she wasn't coming that day. She didn't let herself think for too long that he might have been looking forward to seeing her. If the mechanic knew what she'd done and who she really was, he would have changed his mind.

After hanging up, she picked up her oldest friend and pressed her face it's fur. She'd wanted a real dog, once upon a time, so badly that a childhood friend had given her a stuffed dog as a gift to ease her breaking heart. Serena’s parents had separated her from the living friend, but the one made from fabric and thread remained. Her baby blanket, along with RahRah, made up the two treasures she'd spent her life protecting from her parents. They were both too old and ugly for the fine house and the expensive tastes of the people occupying it. A nanny had given Serena the small blanket and it had initially been tolerated because she cried without it. Crying toddlers were inconvenient and were the reasons nannies existed. Moons, stars, and little lambs still frollicked on the printed flannel, but time had reduced the lavender to an indeterminate grey and frayed the hems. The blanket and the stuffed dog had followed her to boarding school and her first act, whether returning home or being consigned to a new dorm, was to find a safe hiding place.

The Velveteen Rabbit, a book she had read when she still believed in magic, had told her you could love things into life and that suffering could make you real. The book still sat on her bookshelf and RahRah, as much as she had loved it to raggedness, had not turned into a real dog. Time and pain had rendered it soft and beloved, achieving a point of existence where her heart saw greater beauty and value in the old stuffed toy and it’s companion blanket than in gold and diamonds. Serena wished she could say the same about herself. 

Her stuffed friend had been faithfully collecting her tears and keeping the secrets of her heart safe for years. When RahRah’s fur became too damp to breath through, Serena forced herself to lift her head up to face the world again. She was already dressed and maybe she’d been a fool to let a little rain and a lot of worries keep her locked in her room. The dog was bundled up in the blanket and a kiss pressed between it’s soggy ears. It would wait on her bed, loyal as always, for her to come back, but she needed to go. Anywhere. The destination didn’t matter as long as she did something other than be a depressing little hermit. Look how much good cutting himself off from life had done for the mechanic. Maybe she’d go to the garage after all or maybe she’d wander until she found herself somewhere new. She took an umbrella because only ducks and silly people liked getting rained on.

Rain washed the color from her world, leaving only the monotonous grey of moody clouds and concrete. It would have been nice to say she did go to visit the mechanic, but her straying feet got halfway there before veering at a right angle and following a side street. The choice wasn’t so much avoidance of confrontation as it was a smell. An amazing smell. It was like the holy bakery in the sky - where all good pastries and cups of coffee go when they die - had flung open its doors to remind the people on earth below that paradise existed. Paradise had cinnamon buns and chai. She lifted her nose to better inhale the warm spicy scent and promptly lost her umbrella. A gust of wind smacked her in the face with a handful of rain while wrenching the item out of her hand, but in all honesty it hadn’t been keeping her very dry and she let it fly away with her blessing. Or her curse. Whichever. 

She found herself walking down what was clearly Hipster Alley, complete with a used bookstore, second-hand clothes shop, and a store selling all natural candles and bath products from locally sourced ingredients. The umbrella had been doing a better job than she thought, because in minutes Serena was soaked down to her underwear. Each squelching step she took brought her nearer and she finally stopped at a brightly lit window. A world of lifeless black and grey ink was running down the walls of reality with the rain and drowning her cold feet in shadowy puddles, but in front of her was framed a scene filled with color and light. Like the Little Matchgirl reaching out to touch a vision of warmth and comfort, Serena’s hands pressed to the cold glass that separated her from a different world. 

“You! Come inside this instant!”

The shop bell rang out a belated warning as the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the glass that she’d flattened herself against in alarm. Serena found herself seized by shockingly strong hands and dragged into the brightly lit building before she could voice an opinion on the matter. From there she was deposited on the doormat to drip and told firmly to “stay there” by a matronly woman barely taller than her own petite height. She thought she heard the woman grumbling to herself about little children splashing in puddles and catching their deaths from cold, but the woman bustled out of sight and into a back room too fast for her to take in much of anything except a whirl of autumn red hair. 

Warmth wrapped around her like a comforting embrace, thawing the rainy chill from her skin and the icy shock of being grabbed. Slowly the arms Serena had crossed over her chest lowered and she looked around at a cafe that had more in common with a jewelry box than a Starbucks. Hanging lamps and wall sconces encased in amber glass cast a golden sheen across creamy tile floors and kindled a fireplace glow in mahogany panelling and furniture. The light reflected back at her from the surfaces of burnished bronze and ember-red copper pots, kettles, and cookingware of all sizes and shapes, but the centerpiece of the display was an antique coffee maker behind the counter that towered over everything else. Gold-washed metal compartments and boilers, pipes and nozzles and buttons, formed an amusement park of a machine that dripped coffee and chocolate, frothed milk, and poured forth a cloud of steam that joined with the kettles of tea to form the spell which had lured her to the door. 

Across the counter were scattered colored glass jars and enamel painted tins that sparkled in a rainbow of gem-tones, hinting at a treasure trove of cookies and candies. A large glass display case of cakes, muffins, and cookies formed part of the counter and was stacked with what could only be Royal Albert china with gold rims and delicate painted roses. Her parents could have assessed the value of the room down to the dollar, but Serena only saw the magic. 

The first trembling breaths of spice and chocolate filled her lungs with joy. All was quiet and still, except for the bubble and hiss of tempting drinks. All the tables were vacant, or so she thought until Serena noticed a man in a corner table. Incongruous to the scene, he had on a dull business suit and was holding the biggest crossword puzzle book she'd ever seen. He noticed her attention and raised his cup of coffee in a friendly salute before going back to chewing on his pen. Serena waved back, beginning to wonder how long she was expected to stay rooted to the doormat. 

On the other side of the cafe were tall bookcases, filled with books and knick knacks reminiscent of a magpie’s horde. A sign sat on one shelf, calligraphy letters in golden ink spelling out the message ‘Take what you need. Give what you can.’ Serena almost burst out laughing because next to it, flanked by two votive candles in jars, was the plumpest, friendliest statue of a dragon she’d ever seen. It’s copper grin was amiable as it sat on a heap of fools gold and glass gems. The end of its nose and it’s belly were polished mirror-bright, as if people often rubbed those areas. Maybe the happiness she could see in it’s glittering eyes could rub off. 

A movement in the corner of her eye announced the proprietor's return. The woman was walking more slowly now, loaded down by two very large fluffy towels dyed a shade of red so deep that she almost mistook them for velvet. Serena didn’t even realize that she had taken a step forward until her shoe squeaked against the tiles and she wobbled for balance. In the next moment she was bundled up and swept off her feet. She might have been a baby doll, swaddled and swung like her weight meant nothing. In the brilliant amber lighting of the cafe, even the woman’s eyes shone as golden as honey. Curls the color of autumn fire hugged her red cheeks and clustered around the woman’s shoulders, but, most of all, gazing up at the face bent over her, Serena saw kindness. 

“Oh, my darling, it’s okay,” the woman whispered to her in a low, husky voice. “Whatever is wrong now, it will be well in the end. It’s just that life doesn’t always give us what we think we need in the way we wanted it to happen and certainly not in the timing we would have picked. Now you just sit down and take off those wet shoes. I’ll get you something warm to drink.”

She was carefully set down in an overstuffed leather chair and a pair of slippers pressed into her hands. She stammered out something about being grateful, but the woman was already off again, her roly-poly body bobbing across the floor and behind the counter. This time, Serena distinctly heard her talking about scrawny children who need to eat better. She thought she might have laughed a bit as she changed her shoes and the towel thrown over her head was good for wiping her eyes too. 

The bell over the door rang again, but Serena was too well wrapped to turn around. She could hear the woman talking to someone else who replied as much in laughter as in words. Something about the heat, the comfort of the blanket-like towels, her own emotional exhaustion, and the pleasant sound of the conversation filling the uncomfortable silence of her life left her feeling drowsy. That is, she was falling asleep until someone peeked under the towel.

“Who’s this?” 

Glittery, candy pink lip-gloss. Serena blinked, trying to wrench her mind from that single fixation. The lips smiled and she glanced up at shockingly pink hair, buzzed on both sides with an asymmetrical fringe that partially covered one of the woman’s mischievous brown eyes. The woman tilted her head and studied Serena with a curiosity that might have been uncomfortable if her expression hadn’t been so relaxed and friendly. Few people had ever seemed to find her this interesting and it felt like an open invitation to return the attention. When the woman noticed Serena looking back, she grinned wider and nodded encouragingly. 

Her parents had very strong opinions on ‘delinquents’ that dyed their hair and got tattoos. Those People did all sorts of Bad Things. The list of potential crimes ranged anywhere from vandalism and theft to the unforgivable offenses of being poor and promiscuous. Those People were dirty. They were a disease that was all too contagious, which was why their precious daughter was not allowed near Them. Serena drew in a deep breath and leaned closer. The other woman smelled clean. And like pixy stix. Serena blushed and realized she was licking her own lips. Sparkles and candy bright colors. She wondered what sparkles tasted like. The woman turned to look in the direction of the counter and said, “She’s cute, Mama. Keep this one.” 

As suddenly as the woman came, she vanished, cackling with laughter all the way as the proprietor carried her to the door. The woman’s boots hit either side of the door frame with an audible thud and she halted her trip out long enough to give Serena a wink before she was heaved out. The cafe owner stood in the door, barring re-entry but laughing too as she waved and yelled, "Shoo! Shoo! No troublemaking in my cafe, Candy! Call Mama later and tell her how everything went. Be safe!" 

The businessman had barely looked up the entire time. Serena thought he might be asleep behind his tinted shades. No, his hand moved to add another letter. Chuckling, the proprietor carried a loaded tray over to him with a fresh cup of coffee and then dragged a chair over to where Serena was watching. A small folding table she hadn't noticed propped against her chair was opened up between them and quickly covered with pastries and steaming mugs. 

"There, eat whatever you like. First visit is always on the house. How can my guests know they want to come back or what to get when they do if they don’t sample a few things? You can call me Cherry, dear, and that was one of my daughters you just met. Don’t mind her teasing, she’s a very good girl at heart and she always means well. Candy just likes having fun along the way to doing the right thing, that’s all. My daughters are all wonderful. You must meet them sometime!” 

While she chatted, Cherry pushed a mug of hot chocolate into Serena’s hands. Tiny marshmallows crowded the surface and a sprinkle of cinnamon added an unexpected heat. They might have been long time friends, the way the older woman talked casually about her business and family, and it set Serena at ease. There was no struggling here to gauge boundaries or motive, no agonizing over whether Cherry was interested and enjoying the conversation. A petit four was offered and popped into her mouth as though she were a baby bird. She swallowed it down along with the most bizarre urge to cry. How could she feel so happy and still want to wail? As always, something was wrong with her. The mug in her hand was seamed with what she abruptly realized were cracks, filled in with gold until it was art.

“We don’t throw things out here, just because they have gotten a little broken,” Cherry said, her merry face suddenly very serious. Serena felt that the older woman’s eyes were searching hers. For what, she wasn’t sure, but it felt like being caught in a window with the shades left open. Things she didn’t want seen were on display. Cherry looked down and laid a hand over her own. “You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to, but my daughters and I know pain and we know how to listen. You’re safe here if you ever need an ear or a place to run. Will you tell me your name?”

“I’m S-serena,” she whispered hesitantly, her voice catching on the syllables in a humiliating stutter. She bit her tongue between her teeth, punishing herself for not speaking correctly. Serena was the sole focus on someone’s attention for once - someone who spoke like they were really interested in her - and she was afraid to ruin that potential. Cherry seemed to be the kind of person who would notice if she lied. That wasn’t unusual, but the sense that Cherry might care whether or not she told the truth was new. “I… I’m… new in town. Alone. I don’t know what the right answer is and I… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m making mistakes! I don’t know how to live with mistakes.”

Cherry sipped at her own hot chocolate for a while, but the quiet that settled around them was companionable. Her question had been heard, and someone actually seemed to be thinking about how she felt. It felt… good. As good as the drink warming her from the inside out and the little homemade treats put within her reach. 

“Well, I’m sorry to say, but mistakes are a part of life,” the older woman finally answered, gazing down into her mug. Some people read tea leaves, so it didn’t seem too wild to assume that maybe she’d found someone who worked in chocolate. “There’s no right or wrong answer here, but some questions may be more helpful to ask than others. Instead of worrying so much about making mistakes, maybe you should ask yourself why making a mistake upsets you this badly? Is it because someone has made you afraid of them?”

She… hadn’t really thought of that question before. Mistakes were mistakes. They were bad and wrong and you were bad and wrong to make them. Some of the confusion must have shown through, because Cherry set her mug down and came to sit on the chair arm beside her. Serena let herself be pulled against the woman’s apron and buried her face in the soft, solid bulk. 

“Did someone make you feel like you weren’t worth loving if you weren’t perfect? Did you do something wrong, because doing it the right way felt too hard? Did you lie to someone because the truth was too frightening? There are a lot of different kinds of mistakes to make and people will tell you it’s important to learn from them. It is, but you also need to know why you made those choices. That’s just as important.” 

“What if it’s all of them,” she whispered, voice muffled by cotton. Serena caught herself twisting her fingers in the ruffled folds of the apron, but Cherry didn’t tell her to let go and stop wrinkling her clothes. The older woman stroked her hair until she was still once more. 

“Do you see this tray? I have no doubt you could eat everything on it and you’re welcome to do it, but you can’t fit them all in your mouth at once. That would make a mess and even the ones you liked best might end up making you feel sick. Understand? When there are many things to take or do or think, you need to choose just one to start with. That’s what you will do.” 

The rain pattered against the window, while inside the cafe Serena felt at least momentarily safe from the downpour. She wasn’t eager to leave a place of comfort, because she knew her new resolution might not live long once she exposed it to the real world outside. She would go back to the garage tomorrow and thank the mechanic. If he didn’t know, then… then he didn’t know, and not knowing wouldn’t hurt him. Knowing would. Serena thought of the cringing Wolf, who was aware she’d wronged it. A being who was locked up and alone in the house without even a chance to leave like the mechanic could. 

One more time, even if it was wrong or a mistake. She would start with the Wolf and try to make amends. Then she would return the key.


	4. In Which A Witch Raises An Emotional Cyclone

Candy had a perfectly reasonable reason to hold her hand, but Serena had no excuse for why her cheeks were so warm. Maybe she could blame the hot chocolate. She took a hasty gulp, hiding as much of her face behind the ceramic mug as possible and burning her tongue in the process. The other woman dipped her tiny paintbrush into an antique inkwell, stirring up a storm of dark, shimmering clouds within the glass. Candy’s grin suggested she enjoyed creating a little chaos. Tapping off the excess ink, she carefully added another curving line to the design she was painting on Serena’s forearm. What seemed like random curlicues was rapidly becoming a pattern as delicate and elaborate as lace, moons and stars and flowers subtly connecting into a silvery webwork that trapped and held the light.

The shining ink fascinated Serena, and so did Candy. It helped her forget the iron bars of guilt and failed expectations that imprisoned her mind. 

The Jewel Bean Cafe had become a place of refuge for her over the last month. She’d fled here after her final meeting with The Mechanic. He’d brought out a bicycle that had no lingering scars to remind her of malicious pranks. Diligent work had been put into filling and buffing out even the smallest scratch. Serena had been grateful, but couldn’t conceal how underwhelming the grey paint job was. The Mechanic just shook his head and wheeled it out into the sunlight. Hidden rainbows shimmered into life across a painted silver lining and her exclamation of delight was the only sincere moment between them. 

Her hand had caught his impulsively, their eyes meeting over a wall built brick by brick from their mutual shyness and a crime Serena couldn’t bring herself to confess. The space between one heartbeat and the next was both an instant and eternity, giving her too much time to see the brightness of hope fill The Mechanic’s eyes and too little to enjoy how soft and sweet that expression was before reality caught up. Shame was the cloud that darkened her happiness and she looked away from the disappointment casting a shadow across his. Serena stammered out a few disjointed words of gratitude and his fingers slipped out from between hers. They parted ways with a brief exchange of agonizingly correct politeness. Her offer of coming back sometime was answered by a funereal wave. 

Cherry didn’t know why she arrived upset that day and didn’t pry, but that was the beginning of a new chapter in her life story. The proprietor always welcomed her with a bone crushing hug and loaded her down with more drinks and snacks than what little money she pushed across the counter could have paid for. Harmless gossip and sugar filled the emptiness in her heart, but Serena was always careful with what she shared. She wanted to believe there was an adult who looked forward to seeing her and who wanted to know what she was doing. If that was the truth, then she wasn’t going to risk changing it. If it wasn’t, at least it felt real. 

Instead, she would bring her class work and study material or just pick a novel from the shelf. The overstuffed leather chair that Cherry had first dropped her in was always empty and ready for her to curl up in. A tradition quickly formed, with the proprietor’s amused approval: she rubbed the little metal dragon’s nose for good luck before she left. It gazed up at her with a Cheshire grin - a round, red cherry creature lounging on top of a fools’ gold and crystal heap - and she smiled back. It had been a lucky day when she’d found this place. 

The patrons themselves were kind too. The boring looking man in the suit was one of Steel Moon’s high-powered accountants. When she told Cherry that she was struggling in Statistics, a class she’d taken only because she needed the math credit and had foolishly thought graphs and charts would be easy, the older woman had called Steve over to help. He’d rambled about feeding pigeons in the park and Frank, his red-eyed favorite that looked like a badly used feather duster, until she wondered about premature senility. Then he had taken her textbook, put it back in her bag, and explained the concepts to her with such simplicity that Serena believed she might actually pass her next test. She’d told him so and Steve had just smiled absently and adjusted his tinted eyeglasses. When he said it was no trouble, it sounded like he meant it.

She’d met the owners of the aromatherapy store down the street too.They were a cute pair of hobby writers who spent their time bent over laptops and laughing together. When she’d asked about their store, Serena had been given some good advice on soothing herbal teas and ended up buying a conditioner that was slowly putting a soft, healthy gloss in her hair. A redheaded young man, with so many freckles that he appeared tanned, often ran across the street from the second-hand bookstore and fled back just as quickly with a thermos of chai latte. Sometimes he’d toss more books on the shelf on his way out. The couple from the aromatherapy place made a game of finding the trashiest, weirdest novels from the stack. Sometimes Serena would hide in her corner and listen to the dramatic readings. 

Then there was Candy. The other woman began to magically show up on the slowest evenings. After turning over an armful of boxes and tins to Cherry, she would drag a chair over to Serena and throw herself into it with careless ease. This had made Serena anxious at first, not knowing how she could possibly make conversation with a stranger, but Candy didn’t really ask her to try. She would spread out her own notebooks and fill page after page with designs. It turned out that she was a crafter who took pride in being able to embellish any surface. One day, Serena discovered skin counted as a surface. 

Even when she was speaking, the other woman was never still. Painted nails flashed as she continuously fidgeted with pens and brushes. During an enthusiastic lecture on handmade inks that was punctuated by several dramatic gestures, the other woman’s sleeve pulled back to reveal a fuchsia gladiolus blooming around Candy’s bicep where none had been before. The “sword lily” was an example of the other woman’s skill with temporary body art and Serena’s curiosity was immediately captured. The permanency and fear of her parent’s reaction scared her away from tattoos, but to appear bold in front of Candy and to experiment without commitment was irresistible. 

Serena’s arm was twisted and turned at all angles as silvery abstract patterns grew down her forearm and coiled on the back of her hand. She jumped as a fingernail dragged down her palm and Candy caught her fingers firmly as they straightened out. A few quick strokes of the brush finished drawing vines down to her nail beds and her hand was released. The artist was watching her patiently, chin now propped on her free hand and making no effort to hide her smirk. Serena’s face felt as red hot as one of the copper kettles on the stove. She had a sudden insight into why the overheated vessels were known to scream. 

“You look hot,” Candy pointed out, grin spreading as she brandished her paintbrush like a conductor’s baton. She traced a half circle into the air between them, like the upward curving of a smile. “And bothered. Want to go for a walk when we’re done? You could cool off.” 

Cherry interrupted by coming over to admire her daughter’s dermatological decorating skills. She also waved a scolding finger. Candy’s answering laugh and shrug was eloquent. Without words, an entire dialogue was played out between “Mama” Cherry and her errant child. The parent pointed at the door and Candy spread her hands. A frown rejected the appeal. Inspiration struck. Candy jabbed her finger at an unused jar of ink and sighed like not being able to finish would break her heart. Cherry flicked her daughter’s nose and turned a softer smile towards her guest before leaving them alone again. 

The remaining jar was filled with ink the color of peacock feathers, an iridescent blue-green that sparkled with flecks of gold and purple when the light hit it just right. Serena would have sworn the design on her skin was finished and that any further detail was unnecessary, but the new ink dripped life into the silver framework. Color blossomed with deft flicks and dabs, an even smaller paintbrush being used to make the most delicate shadings and accents. Finally, a thin layer was spread across the nails of both hands to leave the faintest of tints behind. 

“It’s exciting, right? Make-up. Dye. Jewelry. Clothes. Body art. You decorate your home until it feels right. Your body isn’t any different. You live in it and you want it to reflect who you are. I don’t think you know who you are yet, but I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Candy said, laughing and already back to doodling in a sketchbook. She flourished the brush in the air once more, playfully adding,“Experimenting until you figure everything out is half the fun, anyway.”

Serena held out her arm to the light from the window, admiring the artistry and feeling hopeful excitement bubbling up in her chest. She traced the curve of a vine cradling a half-opened flowerbud. The inked image wasn’t real, but some part of her could imagine it blooming and showing it’s true colors to the world. How amazing that would be - something that was allowed to grow freely and watched with anticipation instead of expectation. 

She had not been given that opportunity. The rigid structure and high goals of boarding school had filled her life starting at the age of seven. After that, she’d been put into a finishing school that had failed to make her charming or accomplished. Now it was the college's chance to force her into an acceptable mold. 

One of her earliest memories was of the first day of boarding school. She’d never been away from home and the safety of her nannies, but her parents had not hesitated to leave her with a small suitcase and an order: Make Them Proud. Serena had struggled to be brave in an unknown place filled with loud strangers, but barely three days had passed until someone had knocked her into a mud puddle and she’d ended up in the housemother’s sitting room. Her small, muck splattered body cowered away from the towering ebony shelves filled with spotless porcelain figurines. Shame whispered to her between heaving sobs, pointing out that she had ruined her new uniform and that she was dripping on a freshly waxed floor. Years later, the smell of Old English wood cleaner would still make her stomach lurch and prompt an anxious check for mud or shoe scuffs. 

By the time the housemother had been found, Serena was hysterical. She addressed her apology to the woman’s unbending knees. A younger teacher arrived minutes later to take her to the bathroom and it was this woman who had finally knelt down to her level. Kindness had been in the woman’s eyes and in the hand that patted her head, but the words that fell from her smiling lips murdered the hope in Serena’s heart so thoroughly that the stiffly formal room should have been labelled a crime scene. A pretty little girl like her didn’t need to cry over a silly bit of mud. It was time to calm down now and lift up her chin - didn’t she want her parents to be proud of her? 

Serena never cried in front of witnesses again. Once the young and admittedly uncreative bullies exhausted traditional methods like hair pulling and name calling, they experimented with shutting her in a linen closet overnight. The silent, stiff backed child was let out in the morning and the bullies found someone less boring to torment. The truth was that she had never been bad enough to attract the vigilant eyes of school discipline and never good enough to excite special attention from her teachers. Serena was obedient, self-controlled, and knew more about what cutlery to use during a formal dinner than she knew about who she was as a person. Her parents never did end up being proud of her. 

Cherry was humming behind the counter and her daughter kept time with the tapping of her toes. How different Candy’s relaxed slouch was compared to Serena’s perfectly straight and practiced posture. Candy looked up when Serena focused on her, fearlessly meeting her eyes and flicking her paintbrush in a way that communicated both inquiry and impatience. Serena ducked her head and whispered, “You’re confident, talented, and your mother loves you. I wish I was that lucky. I… envy you.” 

The first hint that something was wrong came when Serena realized Candy was sitting perfectly still. The paintbrush hovered motionless over the paper, a drop of ink building up at the tip. It swelled bigger and heavier by the second, trembling on the edge of falling and forever blotting out the design it had been forming. Serena held her breath, but the anxious vibration of her heart threatened to shake it and her nerves loose. She never saw where it fell, because in the next moment the brush was thrown down on the table. Serena leapt to her feet at the warning screech of a chair being pushed back across the tiles, ready to run or… or play dead, because when did she ever fight?

“Mama! We’re going for a walk.” Candy’s voice rang out sharply, her anger a footnote just beneath the meaning of her words. “Be right back.” 

Before Serena could protest, Candy had caught her by the elbow and dragged her outside. Her feet found every crack in the sidewalk, tripping over themselves in an attempt to follow in the other woman’s steps. Her effort to keep up was desperate and hopeless. If she hadn’t been out of breath and afraid that she’d somehow lost the closest thing to a friend she had, Serena might have appreciated the metaphor about trying to be someone else. 

“I really like you,” Candy said, letting go of Serena’s arm and raking her hands through her short hair until it stood up like an irritable cockatoo. She bit off her syllables like they had offended her. “It’s really cute that you’re going through gay puberty and breaking out in glitter. I’ll help you out, but don't envy me. Don’t. I mean it.”

Serena was nodding before Candy even finished speaking, but the other woman only looked more annoyed than ever. Confusion was fertile soil to grow a field of blooming fears. The brighter flowers Candy had painted pressed into her chest, her arms hugging herself tightly, and a few seeds of comfort took root. The other woman was slowing down, quieting, until they could trudge along at the same heavily burdened pace. Candy’s normally expressive face was alarmingly neutral - a mask of stiff lines and dark, distant eyes. Mechanical, methodical steps and stillness had replaced the casual swing of arms and the self-confident saunter. 

"My stepfather threw my ass out at fifteen and my mother let him,” Candy said, so abruptly and tonelessly that Serena’s stomach began to squirm. This woman was barely recognizable as the creature of bright colors and animation that she had been growing attached too. Serena scolded herself for trusting too fast and assuming far too much. With the same mesmerized horror that one watches an oncoming car wreck, she hid in the dark shadow the other woman cast behind her and waited. "Lucky for me that my mother didn't give a damn about me, because otherwise I might still be trapped there with her. What's a daughter's worth against hanging onto the latest abusive bastard, right? Cherry’s my foster mother - all the girls she calls her daughters are fosters. Think she's lucky too? If anyone was born to be a mother, it was her. Her children were murdered. Now she loves the children that other mothers threw away." 

Such words should have been screamed with enough feeling to bring the sky crashing down upon them, but the sun continued to shine up above, and Candy's indifferently spoken words faded away without a single shard left behind. Her hand hovered over her friend's elbow, reeling from the emotional impact and wanting to help but afraid some of the jagged edges hidden beneath the surface would cut too deeply if she held on too closely. Candy sidestepped the gesture and turned to face Serena.

“Everyone around you is dealing with more crap than you will ever know about and most of them aren’t going to spill their guts for your benefit." Candy neither whispered nor cried, but Serena knew you could hurt without showing it. She knew that truth but somehow she hadn't connected it with anyone but herself before. Candy’s hands closed on her shoulders just a little too tightly, but a bit of life was bleeding back into her face. Life - with both pain and humor openly given to the world. 

“So, Lit Major, here’s one for you to figure out. You’re not in Kansas anymore and that’s exactly what you wanted. Great! Welcome! Whatever shiny golden road you thought you’d find is a lie and any wizard who tells you there’s a quick fix for anything is a dangerous fake. The only thing you need is what you already have - yourself. Go find a Toto somewhere and enjoy the adventure, Dorothy.”

The harder lines of Candy’s face softened into her usual teasing smirk. She gave Serena’s shoulders a gentle shake. There was no hugging, like she’d seen girls do in movies and read about in books, but the other woman did lean in until Serena’s eyes crossed. “You can think of me as the Good Witch.” 

Cherry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously when they got back. In that sharp glance, she saw the teachers who had noticed every speck of lint on her uniform and every scuff on her shoes. She felt the headache of hair pulled into tight pigtails until she’d cut them free one day. Her penmanship was smudged and she’d missed the bonus questions on the last test. She was failing to meet expectations. Candy bumped her hip and Serena remembered to breathe again - just in time for “Mama” Cherry to sweep her up and bury her face in a more than ample bosom. Smothering but safe. Safely smothered. Breathing was overrated. 

When she stepped back, she was dry eyed. A smile she hoped was pleasant and serene was forced into place, but the pressure in her chest threatened to crush her heart to dust when the motherly woman cupped her face in gentle hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She’d learned, painfully, that there were broken pieces inside Candy that could hurt them both if she touched them. Serena starred up into Cherry’s worried face, desperate to see if she could find the sharp edges hidden beneath the soft features and compassionate eyes. She couldn’t. She hadn’t seen them in Candy either, because the bright colors had distracted her. She was an idiot. She wasn’t worthy of being loved.

Serena’s knees hit the floor hard enough to bruise. For the first time since that long ago group of teachers taught her to be ashamed, Serena began to cry in public. Once the tears overflowed, there was no stopping them. Deep, heaving sobs shook her apart and she tried to hide the ugliness of her tear blotched and snot dripping face. Serena cringed from the arms that closed around her, knowing the moment had come where someone would tell her to stop being a crybaby or drag her away to some back room where no one had to look at her disgraceful behavior. 

Instead, Serena found herself carried to the nearest armchair. Cherry settled them both comfortably, holding on firmly when Serena tried to escape her lap. It was a battle the older woman won in seconds, armed with superior strength and facing an opponent who had been waiting a lifetime to find kindness she could surrender to. Cherry rocked her, slow and steady, kissing the tangled fluff of blonde hair. The motherly woman was humming tunes her own children must have heard in that once upon a time that never got it’s happily ever after. The thought was a knife in Serena’s heart, yet even that pain began to fade as the young woman grew exhausted. And calm. 

Peeking out from Cherry’s arms, Serena immediately saw Candy. Her friend was sitting on the arm rest, resting her head on “Mama’s” shoulder. Serena had a Plan to cut ties with her family, but only after she’d safely secured a home and a job somewhere too far away for them to harm her. Her worst fear was being discovered before her Plan was finished and being cut off before she was ready. Candy had survived being thrown into the street. Serena admired her for that strength, but more than ever it made her determined to avoid that fate. She was a coward. She couldn’t be that strong. 

Serena hiccuped, a fresh sob rising. Her skull throbbed painfully with every breath, so she didn’t resist when Cherry clucked scoldingly and pulled the young woman’s head back down onto her chest. She dozed off for a few moments, inhaling the fragrance of tea, spices, and the bakery sweetness of the Mother. The scent of burnt earth and the metallic bitterness of minerals seemed to linger beneath the more sugary odors, reminding Serena that she too often focused on superficial things. Like herself. 

Cherry’s voice was a soft murmur with a single refrain - all would be well in the end. She wanted to believe that, but her mind rebelled against the audacity of hope. It preferred to taunt her over how she had made herself look ugly and weak. It fixated on how gross and slimy Cherry’s blouse was where she’d been crying into it and how disappointed in her Candy must have been. The strong imagination that had lifted her childhood to above the daily nightmare bent itself to thinking up all the reasons why her new friends should hate her. Except that they were beside her still. Right now. They hadn’t left. But they didn’t know everything. 

The bell over the door rang, interrupting her mental game of pingpong. Steve shuffled in, using his briefcase as a tray to hold a box of pizza and two large bags of garlic knots. He seemed vaguely conscious of having created an awkward situation, which translated into him putting one of the pungently smelling bags into her left hand and his handkerchief into the right. With that matter settled in his mind, Steve retreated to his usual table for the daily crossword. Serena clutched the warm back close, looking from the consternation in Cherry’s face to Candy’s twitching lips. Laughter, strained and a bit hysterical, won out and Mama could only sigh, kissing them both on the cheek. She suggested her children existed to make her go grey before her time and then, catching Serena’s eye, asked seriously if her little one was feeling better. 

Her hands shook only a little bit as she gathered up her books and waved goodbye. Cherry had accepted that she couldn’t talk right now, but had made it clear she would be there when Serena was ready. She would always be there, right where Serena could find her. They liked her. It was all going to be okay. Candy walked her to the bus stop and, despite Serena’s protests, sat beside her on the bench to wait for the bus. 

“Nothing’s changed. You know more about us now, but we’re not different people,” Candy muttered, trying and failing to catch Serena’s eye. The other woman’s leg was bouncing itself into early-onset joint pain. Serena didn’t look up until a small but ornately painted paper bag was placed in her lap. Curiosity revived her enough to peek in, finding it full of brightly colored rock candy on string. “I made those myself. I like you. A lot. Are we still… good?”

Serena leaned sideways until her shoulder rested against Candy’s. Slowly, the other woman leaned back until they were propping each other up. The leg bouncing slowed to a stop. There was more than enough candy in the bag to share, so they split a string between them and watched the clouds roll by. Candy suggested one looked like a plump dragon. Serena countered with a galloping unicorn and the bag of garlic and butter dipped calories. The laughter that followed felt like a shared sigh of relief. The “Good Witch’s” voice was unusually soft as the bus pulled up, but she heard it even above the screech of brakes. 

“Mama wasn’t lying. Life hurts, but it does turn out okay in the end. We created the life we wanted and so will you. Get going, Dorothy Gale. The bus won’t wait.”


End file.
